


between a rock and a hard place

by thicctcher



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Come Inflation, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Identity Reveal, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Big Dick, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Monsterfucker Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Porn with Feelings, Scent Kink, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, belly bulge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thicctcher/pseuds/thicctcher
Summary: Oh fuck. Not now! Can’t the spell hold for a bit longer?A gravelly cry escapes Jaskier’s throat.Without a second thought, he grabs his lute, his pack, and rushes out of the room, out of the inn and runs. Runs for his life. Because if he changes here he’s as good as dead.He runs and runs, tears flowing thick and plentiful down his cheeks.He runs until his legs give up on him.He runs and hides in a deep dark cave.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 375





	between a rock and a hard place

**Author's Note:**

> So.... this is my first attempt at smut <3  
> hope I did well :D
> 
> Many many thanks to my beta readers S and C <3

Jaskier’s time is running out. He can feel it. His time as a bard, as a human, is almost over. Twenty-two years the spell lasted. Twenty-two years. When the mage had promised him twenty at best.

“Will you come with me?” Geralt, his one and only love, asks him, his golden eyes soft and warm; full of affection. 

Jaskier shakes his head, unshed tears welling up in his eyes. “I can’t Geralt, not this time,” he responds simply, his voice barely a whisper to keep it from cracking. “I don’t feel that well. I better rest,” he adds the almost-lie, making his heart ache. 

He won’t accompany him on a hunt; he’s too scared. If he turns back into this - this monster… He doesn’t want Geralt to witness this. 

Geralt leans in and kisses him on his forehead. The witcher hums, his soft lips are still pressing on his crown. Jaskier chokes down the sob that is bubbling in his throat and rasps out, “Don’t be gone long, I love you.”

-

Geralt has a gut feeling this contract will be exceptionally nerve-wracking. And of course, he’s right. 

The contract described what Geralt believed to be a single Ekimma, a lower vampire that’s been attacking the merchants down the trade route. What Geralt found, instead, were three Alps. 

Fuck. 

He can’t very well go swords singing and signs blazing on three Alps. He has to plan, strategise, use the right decoctions. If not, he’s looking to be buried six feet under real quick. 

So that’s what he does. He waits for them a whole day to split up, he prepares his swords with all the right poisons and he strikes. 

_ Jaskier will be immensely worried. He’s sure.  _

But they both need the coin and the bard has been looking worse and worse with every passing day and Geralt is so close to dragging him to the closest healer. 

He shoves the thoughts down and moves swiftly and silently, the sign of Quen ready to be cast in one hand and the poisoned sword in the other. 

The Alp doesn’t even know what hit it. Its head is pried from its body, landing several meters deep into the forest. Geralt loses no time and destroys the brain with a spare silver dagger. 

_ Now, two left to go. _

-

_ Oh no no no no no no no no! _ Geralt is late. Very late. 

And Jaskier’s time amongst the humans is nigh over. Done. Never to come back. 

He’s worried about his witcher, of course he is. But he knows Geralt can sometimes take longer at hunts, stalk the prey before he can attack safely. He knows this and yet… 

He’ll be fine, he chants to himself, holed up in the small inn room which suddenly seems too small, too restricted. 

_ Oh fuck. Not now! Can’t the spell hold for a bit longer? _

A gravelly cry escapes Jaskier’s throat. 

Without a second thought, he grabs his lute, his pack, and rushes out of the room, out of the inn and runs. Runs for his life. Because if he changes here he’s as good as dead. 

He runs and runs, tears flowing thick and plentiful down his cheeks.

He runs until his legs give up on him.

He runs and hides in a deep dark cave. 

-

Geralt is tired and his only wish is a warm bath and a hug from his favourite bard. Gods, he misses Jaskier; the hunt has lasted much longer than he initially anticipated. 

He trudges into this godsforsaken hovel they call a village, three heads previously belonging to the Alps, secured in a thick burlap bag. He wastes no time and beelines to the Alderman’s house, drops the bag on the porch and negotiates an appropriate price. 

He must get to Jaskier as soon as possible, the prospect of the man’s sweet kisses becoming more endearing as time passes.

Geralt is ready to jog to the inn when the alderman places a hand on his shoulder and looks at him with pity, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Your bard, sir witcher," the alderman says. Fuck. Did something happen to Jaskier during the time he was gone? "He gon' running as if his life depended on it, sir witcher. Never seen a man so scared run so fast."

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Geralt takes a deep breath, trying to steady his frantic heartbeat.

"Which way," he asks, as composed as he can muster. The alderman points a finger towards the woods and Geralt runs.

And runs. 

And runs.

He runs into the deep forest until he catches the distinct sweet scent his bard favours wearing; chamomile and honeysuckle. Geralt follows the scent, swerving between tall trees and low foliage. He follows it religiously until he finds himself in the mouth of a big cave. 

Why would Jaskier go there?

What did he run from?

Was it Geralt? Did he somehow manage to chase his love away? 

Geralt chokes down the sob that is bubbling in his throat. He just-- he just hopes that’s not the case. He just hopes that there is a reasonable explanation. That can’t -- It cant-- 

His enhanced sense of smell catches another scent and suddenly all the thoughts vanish from his mind; the rocky, mossy smell of a troll. 

No-

No no no no! Jaskier!

That-

No! 

Geralt draws his silver sword and steadies his posture. Jaskier, he - he must be alive.  _ He must _ . He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, damn it!

Geralt was never a religious man, and yet, he finds himself praying to every god he can recall for his bard’s safety. For his love’s return.

Geralt enters the cave, careful not to startle the troll that must reside there. Judging from the surroundings, his best bet is that it’s a common rock-troll he’ll be dealing with. Which is… not terrible. Rock trolls are intelligent enough to be reasoned with, and they are not known to attack humans with no reason. 

He takes a Cat potion from his pouch and downs it, his eyes now able to discern every detail of the dark cave. 

What he sees once he’s a little bit further in shatters his heart in a million pieces. 

There’s a troll unlike one he’s ever seen; twice as tall as him, a set of big curled horns embedded in its forehead. A long slim tail sweeping the floor of the cave.  _ It’s dressed in blue rags. _ The troll has what Geralt believes are shiny blue jewels growing out of its body in patches, and it’s covered with mossy hair in a similar way as a human man. 

The troll is holding Jaskier’s lute in one big hand. 

The one belonging to the bard, who cared for it more than his own life.

Geralt suppresses the tears that want to spill from his eyes, and with an inhuman cry, he leaps to attack. 

And when he’s a breath away from connecting his silver sword with its blue-green greyish skin then- then the troll turns to face him. 

Bright blue intelligent eyes stare into his -- now -- pitch black ones. 

It’s crying, bawling its eyes out. And Geralt stops for a moment to reconsider. Maybe- maybe he’s wrong and the troll didn’t harm his bard. Maybe there’s another explanation. 

Geralt takes a deep breath, and when he finds the absence of the metallic scent of blood in the air, he lowers his sword.

“Where’s Jaskier?” he growls at the troll, and the troll hiccups, big tears running down its face, and curls into itself clutching the lute like a lifeline. “Where’s the human you got this from?” he tries again, pointing at the delicate instrument in the creature’s embrace. 

“Not here,” the troll sobs, its --no, his-- voice deep and gravelly; rock against rock. The big tusks that protrude from his lower lip apparently are not hindering the creature from speaking clearly in the human tongue. 

“Where is the human, troll?” Geralt presses, lifting his silver sword in a threatening manner. He doesn’t intend to use it against the obviously smart creature, but he feels the threat might be needed if he wants to find his bard unharmed as soon as possible.

  
  


“I told you, witcher; the ‘ard is not here. ‘lease, leave ‘e alone or kill ‘e,” the creature says between sobs, “Jaskier will never co’e ‘ack,” the troll whispers impossibly low, his voice filled with sorrow. 

This doesn’t sit right with Geralt. What creature asks for its death? What creature makes no move to protect its territory? And most of all, how does the troll know what a bard is anyway? What Jaskier was - no!  _ Is? And why on earth does it seem to care so much for his bard? _

Geralt is tired. He wants to find Jaskier damnit and hold him tight. And the troll isn’t helping at all. He sighs and sits on the cold hard ground, resigned. He places his sword back on its scabbard and lays it next to him.

“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers,” Geralt states. When he doesn’t get any answers but constant sobbing, he adds, “Please. At least tell me your name.”

The troll’s breath hitches, his sobbing becoming more and more violent, “I im’lore you, leave. Leave, Geralt. Jaskier’s not here. Not here. Not here. ‘elieve ‘e, Geralt. I- de- deg- FUCK! Fucking teeth, Cock!” he brings his big four-fingered hands to his face pulling at his hair, distressed. “I can’t even s’eak to you like a ‘erson. Fuck.” 

He… he knows his name. But it’s not only that he knows Geralt’s name; it’s the whole mental breakdown the troll is having that is entirely familiar. A breakdown Geralt has witnessed, and helped soothe, hundreds of times these past twenty years.

It’s like… No, it can’t be.

_ It’s like the troll is Jaskier. _

“You’re Jas-” Geralt tries but the troll won’t stop muttering to himself, cursing the world. 

“A ‘onster. A ‘onster is what I a’. A ‘loody ugly as shit ‘onster. Deserving to ‘e slayed. ‘Ade a trophy of. Why did I ever think I could live a’ongst hu’ans. Why was I so utterly foolish?”

Geralt does not think of his next move; his body moves on its own. He lurches towards the troll -- no, Jaskier, because there is now no doubt in the entire world that the troll and his bard are the same person -- and hugs him. He’s being completely dwarfed by Jaskier’s huge frame, his hands not even being able to encircle him whole. 

He’ll find out what happened to his bard and he will help him. Even if it’s the last thing he does.

“Geralt,” Jaskier chokes down a sob, “Why are you still here, Geralt? Why won’t you leave?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says and looks up to meet those same blue eyes he fell in love with years ago, “I’m so sorry Jask, sorry I attacked you. You’re not a monster, alright? Not a monster.” 

Troll, human… What does it matter? Jaskier is Jaskier no matter what form he takes. 

“Don’t lie, Geralt. I know ‘erfectly well what this- this ‘ody is,” Jaskier spits out, vitriol dripping from his voice when he gestures to his trollish body. It breaks Geralt’s heart to see the man he loves hate himself so much. 

“I love you, Jask,” Geralt blurts out, gazing deep into those blue eyes. Jaskier, like this, is not so different from the bard he knew. When he searches the troll’s facial features he can discern the same lines, the same warmth of his lover. He’s different yet entirely the same. 

_ He’s the beautiful, kind and feral man he’s loved for so long.  _

“How can you love ‘e Geralt?” Jaskier cries, and averts his eyes, “How can you love this?” 

“I love you, no matter what form,” Geralt says softly, placing a hand on Jaskier’s big, thick arm. The contact makes warmth pool down in his breeches. 

_ His love, his Jaskier, _ his mind chants religiously. 

“You don’t understand Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice breaks, “I was always a troll. Always. ‘Efore I ‘et you. It was a sorcerer that turned ‘e hu’an, to reward ‘e for saving his life.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Geralt says firmly, “It doesn’t matter. I love you, Jaskier. I will always love you.” The words are true. He fell in love with the bright kind person Jaskier is. It doesn’t matter that he isn’t human, that he’s never been one to begin with. Geralt loves him because of who he is and not what he is. And that is the truth. 

Jaskier leans into Geralt’s embrace and wraps big arms around Geralt’s much smaller frame. It’s strange, in a way, how much Jaskier dwarfs him like this. 

Geralt takes a deep breath, taking in the old and new scent of his love; chamomile, moss and rock. The scent is enough to make his cock twitch, ask for more,  _ more Jaskier.  _

“What did I do to deserve you, love?” Jaskier asks softly and Geralt hums. The question should be  _ what did Geralt do, to deserve Jaskier?  _ “You don’t think ‘e hideous?” Jaskier’s voice cracks, insecurity seeping in. 

Geralt shakes his head firmly and guides Jaskier’s hand to his hardening cock. 

Jaskier raises a dark brow and chuckles low, the rumble serving to make Geralt even harder. “You really want to…?”

Geralt nods, unable to think straight as he takes in Jaskier’s scent again. 

“Gods, Geralt. I don’t think I can fit,” Jaskier says shyly. 

That's - that's something Geralt hadn’t thought of. But the prospect of being filled by Jaskier, so completely, makes his mouth dry. 

“We’ll make it work,” Geralt says and reaches for a kiss. Jaskier leans in and their mouths collide. Geralt runs his tongue between sharp teeth and tusks, tasting every inch of his bard, his Jaskier. 

Jaskier lifts him up and Geralt wraps his legs around Jaskier’s midriff.  _ Fuck, he’s so strong now. Fuck.  _ A high pitched squeal escapes Geralt’s throat. 

Jaskier places him carefully on the ground and moves a hand to caress Geralt’s cheek. 

_ Gorgeous. So, strong.  _

“Off with the ar’our, darling,” Jaskier says as he unfastens the straps that hold the armour pieces together. Geralt helps by unbuttoning his leather pants, discarding them hastily on the ground. 

Geralt spies for Jaskier’s bag that lies at one wall of the dark cave. He rushes towards it and reaches for the bottle of oil that’s always present in it. 

Jaskier chuckles, “Im’atient, aren't we love?” 

Geralt pops the bottle open, dropping a generous amount on his hand and licks his lips when he comes face to face with Jaskier’s  _ proportional _ erect cock.  _ Fuck, he’s huge.  _

Jaskier clicks his tongue a couple of times, "Allow 'e, love," he says and reaches for the oil bottle, "Do you trust 'e?"

"Always," Geralt murmurs and he can't help but bite his lower lip when he sees what Jaskier has planned. The troll is slathering a generous amount of oil on his long sleek tail. 

_ Fuck, this is going to be good. _

Geralt's hole is itching to take in the long smooth tail. To open him up, bit by bit.

Jaskier lifts him up again, as if he weighs absolutely nothing, and presses a hot messy kiss on his lips. Geralt instinctively spreads his legs and reaches blindly for the tail, grabbing it and guiding it in his hole. 

Jaskier slowly thrusts his tail deeper in Geralt, the smoothly thickening width stretching his hole, filling him in. A moan escapes Geralt as the tail brushes against his prostate and he subconsciously brings his hands to Jaskier's horns, hungrily tugging him in for another sloppy kiss. 

Fuck, he needs him to go deeper, stretch him wider so he can take this huge cock deep inside him.

Jaskier's chest rumbles at the contact of Geralt's hands on his horns.

“Sensitive?” Geralt breathes, a hair’s width from his lover’s lips. He doesn’t wait for an answer and he tugs again and  _ oh! _ Jaskier is moaning deep and low. Geralt feels his own cock twitch and he presses it against Jaskier’s abdomen. 

Jaskier’s tail shakes inside him and fuck, it feels so good. He’s so close to coming and he hasn’t had a taste of Jaskier’s cock yet. Fuck. He needs to make this last. 

“Hng- Jask,” he moans, “I want your cock, please, Jask- hng.”

“Not yet, love,” Jaskier rasps and pushes the tail deeper and deeper. And fuck. Fuck, Geralt feels so full and is that..? He brings a hand to his lower abdomen where, with every thrust of the tail, he can discern a small bump. 

He feels his cock starting to leak against Jaskier’s soft, warm belly.

“Jaskier!” he moans again and again and Jaskier thrusts deeper, filling and stretching his hole more and more. 

Then, with a swift movement, he pulls the tail out of Geralt’s now gaping hole and Geralt’s whole body quivers  quivers from the emptiness . His hole pulsates, asks for more.

And Jaskier delivers. 

Geralt didn’t even notice when his lover poured the remaining oil on his huge cock. The cock that’s now playing with his gaping hole, teasing it. 

“Are you ready, love?” Jaskier asks and Geralt moans a yes without losing any time.

And gods! As Jaskier pushes inside him and his cock hits against Geralt’s prostate again and again, Geralt sees white, static in his ears -- and fuck it is so good -- he comes all over between their bodies, pressed together. 

Geralt whimpers and Jaskier thrusts one last time, the shape of his thick cock visible beneath the thin skin of Geralt’s belly. Then, he comes, filling Geralt with his hot spill.

And it fills him so fully, so much, so completely.

They stay like this for a while, panting, and Geralt laughs against Jaskier’s neck, until Jaskier pulls his softening cock out of him, spill dripping from Geralt's hole, running in thin streams down his thighs.

"Did you like it?" Jaskier asks, smiling a wide and toothy smile and puts Geralt down. 

"What do you think, Jask?" Geralt huffs out a laugh gesturing at the mess between them and then at his slightly swelled come-filled belly. 

Jaskier brings a big hand to Geralt's head and brushes the sweaty white strands of hair that stick to his forehead. "What do we do now, love?" he asks, eyes soft and melancholic.

"Whatever you want Jask," Geralt replies, "I'll follow you to the end of the world." 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> Trollskier has been living in my brain rent free for quite a while now and I'm glad I could see this fic through  
> Hope you liked!


End file.
